


Ackerman Wins

by Sassirin



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Humor, M/M, Romance, it's all a game of life and death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-20
Updated: 2014-04-20
Packaged: 2018-01-20 01:39:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1492009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sassirin/pseuds/Sassirin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Jean is into theater, Marco indulges Jean's theater interest, and everyone else, except Mikasa, loses in a big game. It's game over for the both of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ackerman Wins

**Author's Note:**

> This just one of my old fics from 2013. 
> 
> Until you read towards the end, everything won't make sense, so I guess you should just read my fic (?).

For the first time in a long while, it was quiet —  _too quiet_.

Jean waited, the sound of his own breathing forcing him into hysterics instead. It brought a cold chill down his spine, something that put him into a case of paranoia, and made him try to believe that he had eyes on the back of his head. It urged him to rip his mask off, to sip in the sweet succulence of fresh air and bury himself in it — but even he knew that was the sickest punch-line to a joke he's ever heard.

Even from underneath his gas mask, it all still managed to seep in and fill his nose — the rancid stench of rotten flesh, the putrid smell of wasted blood, and the heavy perfume of burnt wood. It was so strong that it was almost like he could chew on it, taste it in his mouth. He felt sick from it, like some bad dose of medicine that caused a stomach to turn instead.

But for the most part, he kept steady and alive, his body crouched low to the ground and sitting alarmed on his heels. He leaned his body against the wall—or at least the leftover remains of it—and tried to peek out from around the corner without revealing too much of himself. He crab-walked closer to the wall's edge, fingers holding tight on the AR-15 gun in his hands and readily placed on its trigger.

And all of a sudden, there was a rustling sound, something that alarmed Jean that someone was near and definitely watching him.

But much to his displeasure, he couldn't move away from the wall corner as far as he wanted, at least not without making too much of a sound. But  _it_  was coming even closer and it was much bolder this time, since it hadn't bothered to hide its footsteps anymore. His heartbeat quickened and his adrenaline pumped, all the alarms and voices in his head screaming at him to prepare, to throw caution to the wind and get ready for an attack.

"Marco," he grunted out, his fingers extremely secured on the trigger and eyes narrowing dangerously. "On my count, we jump this motherfucker. Enemy or not, don't take in caution and remember to aim— _Marco_?"

The moment he turned his head to look at the freckled-male, his jaw dropped and his expression deformed into flabbergast once he discovered that he'd been talking to no one the entire time, Marco completely gone missing from behind him. His jaw dropped, the shock of the situation also unknowingly forcing his hands to loosen around the gun and drop it to the ground as he turned his whole body around to make sure that he wasn't imagining things and that Marco might've been somewhere near.

He ripped the gas mask off his face, holding it in his hand an uncaring if the dust ever got into his eyes, because a sinking feeling was currently exploding in his chest. His eyes frantically darted around, squinting at the attack of dust to his eyes, but still desperately trying to pinpoint some kind of hint of what might have happened to Marco.

Unfortunately, it also caused him to forget about the possible eminent danger that continued to creep up from behind him; but at this point, he couldn't care less, not when his partner was missing.

" _Shit!_ " he cursed aloud, panic rising even further. " _Marco_!" he yelled out, both hands cupped around his mouth, as he tried not to break out into hysterics. " _Marco, where are you_?!"

If the freckled-male wasn't answering at this point, something definitely must have happened to him earlier, and it just killed him so much to realize that he hadn't noticed that Marco had been missing the entire time.

However, just as he was about to stand up and start searching, discretely forgetting about the impending situation, a finger tapped at his shoulder from behind, " _Jean_?"

Jean screamed, scrambling to get back onto his feet but succumbing to falling on his bottom instead. The mask that he held was disregarded and thrown to the side, as his hands tried to grab at his gun on the ground only to rebound it off to the side as well in the rush of it. " _Fuck, fuck, fuck!_ "

If Jean thought it had been hard to breath before, right now, it felt like his breath was taken away — and not in the way he wanted it to be.

After everything has cleared up, more dust gathering in the air as a result of his scramble, Jean's eye squinted hard before widening at the sight of the male that stood before him.

" _Marco?_ " Jean breathed out, emotions of incredulousness, shock, anger and relief all mixed into one tone in his voice. Marco stood unharmed in front of him, the male's Smith model gun perfectly brandished and held in his hand, as Marco blinked. "You—Marco, where have you been?!"

"Jean, I told you earlier, didn't I?" Marco said, as he held a hand out for Jean to grab, and then helped him onto his feet. "I said I was going to scout the area earlier, remember? You weren't listening to me, were you?"

"I  _was_  listening!" Jean argued back with a click of his teeth, heading towards where his mask and gun had fallen.

His cheeks puffed out as he held his breath, the disgusting smell getting to him and urging his feet towards the mask first. But after he had grabbed at it, a huge drop of sweat slid down the side of his head, the scorching desert heat blistering and beating down him so harshly that he decided the smell might've been better than fainting from a heat stroke.

Grimacing slightly, Jean tucked the mask into one of the pockets of his boonie suit, and then headed for his fallen gun, making sure it was still intact. He was about to continue to talking, but stopped after being met with a disapproving look from Marco, one that immediately shot guilt into him. "Okay,  _fine_. I admit that I wasn't listening earlier? Happy?"

"Very!" Marco chirped happily, twirling his gun between his fingers before tucking it into the pockets of his boonie suit. "What should we do now, Jean?"

For a moment, Jean opened his mouth to answer, but succumbed to a sigh instead. His lips pursed together, eyebrow creased in thought, as Jean walked past Marco to sit on a nearby boulder. He put his gun on the ground to his left side, tucking in his right leg close to his chest afterwards, and resting his chin atop it. Annoyed, Jean tried to rack through his head for the next move, but nothing would come up at all. He was still a little hazy about everything that's happened so far; everything seeming so surreal.

"This fuckin' sucks." Jean sulked, face-palming himself with a groan. "Not all are we running out of ammo, but we've going at this for days!" He threw his hands up out of exasperation and then stomped on the ground. "Are we even going to survive until tomorrow?! Because you know that, once night hits, the zombies creep out! Our asses are eaten before we even see the next sunrise!" Jean choked out, pounding a fist against his lap. "What's the point of having a plan anymore?"

His throat burned, the sun continuing to rain its heat onto him mercilessly. It made him dizzy, forcefully making it hard for him to think straight and clearly, all the ideas, plans, solutions that he thought he had twisting and jumping around in his head.

All of a sudden, something wet slipped down his neck, and after Jean touched it, he looked up to see Marco dripping some water from a canteen down his neck.

"Jean, I think you need to calm down. The heat's probably getting to you." Marco held the canteen back, and then pressed the back of his hand against Jean's forehead, much to the male's surprise. He placed the canteen onto Jean's lap before moving towards the right side of the brunet and sitting himself on the ground. "Drink some water."

Jean tossed him a grave look. "Marco, that's yours." And then he gave the canteen a slight shake, hearing the light slush sound from inside. "I already finished mine, and yours is half-full. You take it." He handed it back; though, not without feeling the dryness of his throat.

"I know that." Marco smiled, and pushed the canteen back towards Jean. "But we both need to survive for at least another night, so you might as well drink some." He took the canteen and placed it back on Jean's lap. "Plus, you've been working the hardest between the both of us, and if either of us had to live, you deserve it."

Guilt-stricken, Jean stared at the bottle for a moment, temptation burning in his throat this time, despite what little of his will had telling him to refuse. But he took a swig anyways, drinking down a testament against the desert heat, the ruins that they currently took refuge in, the enemies after them, and the zombies that were sure to come. It felt amazing, something like a cool soothing feeling against the fire that ran in his gut.

After he finished, he returned the bottle back to Marco, who then drank down his own share and relishing in it until the canteen formed empty.

"Sometimes, it makes me laugh, you know?" Jean started, snorting to himself as he rested both arms on his lap. "I never would have thought that shit like zombies or getting chase out into a desert would ever happen in my life, you know?"

And Marco had to agree, even if Jean's words sounded completely like nonsense, because in actuality,  _it was the honest truth_.

Armin had a book that held all kinds of crazy and interesting stories, of myths and legends and tales untold. It told of creatures called dragons and a species of women called mermaids that only existed in the deep, blue ocean. Something that particularly took at least a small toll on everyone were things called zombies — animated corpses brought back to life. The thought of the undead becoming alive once more particularly weighed heavy on everyone, thoughts of dead relatives or friends living once more running through their minds.

But it was just a story.

However, not only did Armin's book talked about these sorts of things, it also contained supposed stories of prophecies. And one such prophecy that had been a particularly interesting bedtime story talked about enemies coming from everywhere, seeking to take each other down until there was only one survival left in such in impossible and surreal world.

Together with the zombies, all of humanity would be devastated, and only one could survive to rule. It would be a travesty; it would be a grim reminder to all of mankind before its death.

But it was  _only_  just a story.

"And yet, who would've guessed that the shit in Armin's book would every come true." Jean grunted. "Forced out of our own  _home_  to fight in an unholy war, and dying at either the hands of an irrelevant enemy or the rotten ones of zombies in a fuckin' deserted town!" Jean would've cried if he was half the man that he was. "Just what am I living for?!"

"Jean, I said to calm down, remember? Take a deep breath, okay?" Marco placed a hand on Jean's shoulder. "We'll get through this and we'll find the others, I'm sure."

"  _Survivors_? Marco, the only ones still alive are you, me, Armin, Mikasa, and that shithead Eren!" Jean stood up, panic in his eyes. "Everyone else is dead, and the last time we saw those three was about six hours ago, so who knows if they're still alive?!"

From the ground, Marco tried to pull Jean back to sitting on the boulder. "I'm sure those three are still alive. They're pretty capable on their own, you know."

"Right," Jean snorted. "If they are still alive, I say we take Armin and make a shota blonde boy sacrifice to the gods to spare us!"

"Haha, that's funny, Jean, I told you to calm down, didn't I? I can see the crazy in your eyes, so sit down and rest  _again_." Marco smiled, but even he had a certain twinkle to his eye. "Besides, shota blonde boy sacrifices aren't enough to appease gods, Jean. What are you thinking?"

Jean was about to say something, but his earlier words suddenly dawned onto him, and all he could do was face-palm himself. It remained quiet for a while until both boys released a sigh, realizing that they  _both_  were getting crazy.

Jean sat back down on the boulder, grumbling. "I'll bet you that shithead Eren got too reckless and got himself killed." He said. "And Armin probably got killed off too, trying to stop Eren, so that just leaves Mikasa."

"But we can't just believe that Mikasa is the last one alive." Marco said, standing up. "They might all be alive, or maybe it's just two of them."

"Well, whatever the case," Jean stood up as well, looking up at the sky and spotting some shades of orange and pink. "Someone's most likely alive, and we better head out for some better cover. I'd really prefer not to get killed on a desert."

"Roger that!"

Jean snatched his gun off the ground, holding it in one hand while the other one reached into the pocket of his suit for his mask. He pulled it out and was just about to slip it on until he noticed something off about Marco.

"Marco, where's your gear?"

"Oh, you mean my mask?" Marco rubbed at the back of his head, avoiding Jean's curious gaze. "I think I accidently left it somewhere while I was scouting earlier. But don't worry about it."

" _Liar_ ," Jean accused, as he narrowed his eyes at the freckled-male who refused to meet his gaze. "Are you telling me that you've been enduring the fuckin' stench all this time and you didn't say anything?!"

"The smell's not so bad once you get used to it, honest!" Marco laughed nervously, as he held his hands up in defense. "And besides, it's not that important, so let's just let it go."

" _But you hate the smell_." Jean scrunched up his nose, his eyes darting from his own mask to Marco before coming to a decision. "Take mine." He held the mask out to Jean.

"Jean, I'm not gonna take your mask. You hate the smell just as much as I do."

"Yeah, but," Jean started, his cheeks reddening a bit and forcing him to turn his head away. "It's only right for you to take it, since you've been watching out for me." Flustered, he tried to hide it with a cough. "And you gave me some of your water, so think of it as reciprocal exchange. Take it." He pushed the mask into Marco's arms.

Amused, Marco tried not to laugh. "And tell me how that's a reciprocal exchange?"

"It just is!" Jean scowled, still embarrassed. "Just take the stupid mask, Marco! I don't need it!"

"But I don't need either, Jean. Besides, don't you have allergies?"

"Screw my stupid allergies! I bet the smell makes you want to vomit, so you need it more than I do!"

"But you've complained about the smell before, so you take it, Jean!" Marco pushed the mask back to Jean.

But Jean refused to accept it, making sure it remained in Marco's hands. "I'm not kidding, Marco. I don't need the mask any more than you do!"

"I don't need it either, Jean, so just—"

Unfortunately, Marco's sentence went unfinished when a sudden string of gunshots fired at them from out of nowhere, forcing both males to drop to the ground.

But just as fast as it had came, it stopped; the entire surroundings deafening into an eerie, tense silence that caused Jean's heartbeat to quicken. Nothing came at them after that, almost as if those gunshots had been nothing but a figment of his imagination.

But Jean wasn't stupid and certainly didn't go completely crazy just yet.

He grimaced as he touched the right side of his body, feeling it gradually become denser and heavier from the flow some wet and warm liquid —  _blood_. Jean cursed under his breath, flinching at the sting and pain that ran through his body when he first attempted to crawl.

Jean cursed under his breath, tears forming in his eyes due to the dirt and dust particles that had clouded the air afterwards.

It pissed Jean off to know that whoever out them took at advantage to gun at them when they were most vulnerable. And to make things worse, that enemy was still out there, probably eyeing them and planning its next move to make their deaths as quick as possible.

But Jean wouldn't have any of that, forcing himself to soldier-crawl back to the wall piece from earlier, gun still secured in his hand. He'd use the dirt and dust clouds to his own advantage before the enemy decided to do anything else.

At this point, it was either do or die — now or later.

For Jean, it'd be later.

First things first, Jean moved his arm around, stretching and hoping to somehow reach for Marco in the midst of it all. Much to his luck, his fingers felt the fabric of what had to be Marco's suit, and immediately, he tucked at it to urge Marco to follow after him.

Gun secured beside him, Jean proceeded towards the wall piece, hoping that the enemy remained opposite their direction. He tried not to choke on the dust, eyes seriously tearing up, but glad that he'd given his mask to Marco earlier.

Once he reached the wall, he pressed his back against it, bringing his gun up and readying himself. Again, it became hard for him to breathe, but this time only because death was almost literally knocking at their door.

"I'm not dying just yet, asshole." Jean grunted; his dirt-stained face against the wall and close to its corner. "Not until we're sacrificing blonde boys to the gods, right, Marco?!"

He waited for an answer but when he still hadn't received one, Jean paled a bit, turning his head behind him. "Marco?"

For the second time, Marco was nowhere to be found, causing Jean's stomach to churn.

"Marco!" Jean called out, biting his teeth as he tried to keep himself composed. "Marco, come on!"

But Marco still hadn't answered; no matter how many times Jean called.

Finally, the clouds of dust cleared a bit and when Jean looked over to where Marco should have been, his eyes widened at the sight.

At the around the exact same spot, Marco was on the ground, both chest and back soaked from a pool of blood. His eyes were closed and he hadn't moved at all, something that made Jean sicker than the putrid smell around him. Marco's hand still held onto the mask, but it was just about slipping through his fingers. It even looked like Marco wasn't even breathing anymore, and though it was right in front of him, Jean didn't want to believe it.

"Marco!" Jean rushed towards the freckled-male, abandoning his weapon and his goal, making himself absolutely vulnerable.

He sat by Marco's side, fingers frightened to find out whether the blood was real or not, but he forced himself to feel it — to feel that it was  _Marco's blood_. At the same time, it felt unreal—surreal—because never in his life would Jean have imagined for things to turn out like this, to find that his own partner died at his own watch. But there Marco was, in his arms, the blood becoming frighteningly on par with his sleeping image that it made Jean want to finally vomit.

" _Marco_ ," Jean breathed out, the tears also finally sliding down his cheeks; this time, not because of the dust. His eyes glazed over Marco's body, teeth gritting and tears especially flowing at the sight of a hole through Marco's chest, done at the time when they had been at their most vulnerable. " _Marco, Marco, Marco…_ " Jean cried.

" _Jean_."

A finger had tapped at his shoulder, making him jump a bit, and when Jean looked, he found a smiling Marco in front of him this time. "Marco," Jean choked out. "Where were you?"

Marco chuckled, eyes opening just a bit to get a look at the brunet. "I told you earlier, didn't I?" His hand lifted up slightly, holding up the mask to Jean. "I don't need the mask. You weren't listening to me, were you?"

"I  _was_ listening!" Jean argued, but gritted his together for a moment, before continuing to cry. "And what the fuck are you going on about, you idiot?! Don't you die on me!"

"It must stink, doesn't it?" Marco murmured, and it made Jean's heart sink when he realized that Marco was talking about the smell of his own blood. Jean felt even worse when Marco continued to insist on the mask. "Take it, Jean." Marco closed his eyes. " _You need it more than I do_."

And with that, Marco took one final breath, lips pulled into his last smile.

It took Jean's breath away, the sight of Marco dead making him choke.

" _Marco!_ "

* * *

" _Marco!_ "

"They're so stupid." Eren face-palmed himself as he continued to watch Jean and Marco on the jumbo screen that overlooked the entire arcade.

An entire crowd stood watching the two males on the screen, some holding tears in their eyes, while others watched in confusion at what was happening in the game. Not too soon after, big, red capitalized words that read 'PLAYER MARCO DEAD' flickered across the screen for a few seconds.

"Don't be like that, Eren." Armin laughed nervously; but he also felt that maybe Jean and Marco were overdoing it a little bit for a game. "Jean's into theater, and Marco's just playing along."

"You mean Marco's indulging Jean's stupid hobbies a little  _too_  much." Eren corrected, as he rolled his eyes. "Do they seriously have to do some acting every time we all decide to play?"

Armin was about to answer, but Connie cut him off.

"How does Jean know how to cry like that?" Connie asked.

"Because Jean's a big crybaby—oof!"

Armin covered Eren's mouth, shooting the annoyed brunet a warning glance, before turning towards Connie. "Jean really likes acting, so being able to do something like that comes out of practice."

"Huh," Connie said, as he stuck some popcorn into his mouth.

In fact, some of the people inside the arcade also had popcorn too, and even Sasha and Reiner sported their own popcorn as well. Connie and Sasha remained on the ground, leaning on the wall of the back of the arcade where most of the 104th kids stayed watching the jumbo screen. The rest of the 104th kids had died out of the game due to carelessness or distractions—Sasha, Connie, Armin and Eren—or simply choosing to quit—Ymir, Christa, and Annie—or even for other miscellaneous reasons, such as getting shot by a particular blonde teammate—Bertholdt and Reiner.

As Bertholdt leaned against the wall, he fidgeted slightly, his eyes suspiciously darting towards a certain basketball game that had a new high score, the previous one having been his own. Beside him, Reiner tried to finish his popcorn as fast as he could before heading onto a new arm-wrestling game that the arcade installed. Ymir and Christa had gone off to play Dance Dance Revolution, and Connie and Sashsa continue to remain where they sat, commenting on the entire thing.

"By the way, Eren," Armin started, as he looked around curiously. "Where's Mikasa?"

Just before Eren could answer, however, a loud, strangled cry echoed out, and everyone in the arcade turned their attention onto the jumbo screen, coming upon the sight of Jean clutching at his chest. He stayed still for a moment, blood gushing down his chest, before falling on top of Marco, finally dead. Not too soon after, Mikasa showed up on the screen, hovering over a dead Marco and Jean, and holding two Glock 17 guns in both of her hands, her hair flowing along with the wind.

"Great," Eren face-palmed again, before throwing his hands up into the air. "Mikasa won  _again_!"

And just like earlier, big, red capitalized words showed up on the screen, this time, however, reading 'WINNER MIKASA ACKERMAN.'

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> AND BAM! PLOT TWIST.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed your read and you don't hate me for this.


End file.
